


Mending the Cracks

by unadulteratedstorycollector



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 21:22:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12779769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unadulteratedstorycollector/pseuds/unadulteratedstorycollector
Summary: Harry doesn't need to get a job, unless it means he's going to keep bumping into Draco Malfoy. Although... maybe he's not as much of a prick as he used to be...





	Mending the Cracks

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the wonderful mods, you are amazing. Thanks to my beta, J I literally couldn't have done this without you! You are a star. Semperfiona, I hope you like this! I tried to get your prompts in, and as much as you liked!

“I just don’t understand why they want me!” Harry wails, dropping his head onto the dining table with a thud. His head throbs slightly and he curses his best friends for such sturdy taste in kitchen furniture. He tilts his head and watches as Hermione flicks through a report in front of her. She looks too professional like this, her hair tied into a messy ponytail, her crisp grey suit and her sensible earrings. 

“Yes, you do.” She doesn’t look up as she answers him and he huffs, pushing off the table and slumping further in his chair.

“Why not you? You’re much better at this sort of stuff. And you’re actually a Muggle born!” he whines. He knows he’s whining. But it really isn’t fair. He died for these people, isn’t that enough? Apparently not, because they keep dragging him in to do things he really doesn’t want to do. Like liaise with the British and American Ministries about Muggle/Wizarding relations. He doesn’t know anything about being a Muggle! He was literally raised in a cupboard. That’s basically living under a rock. Hermione flicks another page of the report.

“Because I’m too busy doing my actual job in the Ministry.” The report shakes a little and he groans. It had probably been a month into eighth year when Hermione had realised the best way to exact change was to become a politician. She’d marched into Kingsley's office the day after they finished school and demanded he give her a job as head of Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. She’d walked out of his office and straight into hers.

“That and they’re scared of giving her another cause,” Ron chortles, dropping a kiss on top of his girlfriend’s head and flopping into a chair next to Harry, a piece of toast in his hand. Harry frowns, his stomach suddenly clenching and grumbling, loudly. When was the last time he ate? Ron rolls his eyes and Accios a bowl, spoon, cereal and milk, guiding them onto the table carefully. Harry grins and grabs the box.

“It’s just so hard to try and think up rules and guidelines! And boring!” he exclaims, filling his bowl with cereal and pouring milk over it. Full-fat milk. Ron is a good man. Hermione sighs, putting her report down and staring at Harry for a moment before taking a deep breath.

“Yes, well—”

“And, they think it would be good if I talked to a Death Eater! To get their ‘perspective’.” he interrupts, taking a large mouthful of cereal, and just catching the glance that Hermione sends to Ron. 

“That’s an excellent idea! You could talk to Draco when—”

“Draco Malfoy?” he shouts over her again, his eyes wide, his loaded spoon hanging inches from his mouth, “I’m not talking to fucking Draco Malfoy! The fucking prick.” Hermione raises one eyebrow at him, her lips pursing ever so slightly.

“What’s wrong with Draco?” she asks and Harry rolls his eyes. She’s being ridiculous.

“Just because he isn’t an evil Death Eater, that does not make him any less of a complete and utter douche,” he points out, shoving his cereal into his mouth and wiggling his eyebrows so emphasise his point. And it’s a good point. Draco Malfoy is a huge bellend. He has no compassion, he sneers when he talks, and he walks around like he’s doing things much more important than anyone else. Hermione looks at Ron again and Ron shrugs. 

Scoffing at her boyfriend, Hermione turns to Harry, “Oh, you don’t know, you might—”

“Hermione, we gotta go.” Ron suddenly jumps up, pointing at his watch which is pointed at ‘running late’. Hermione squeaks and gathers up her papers and Ron turns to Harry, “Harry, you sure you’re ok to be here for the Floo man?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Didn’t mean to start your day with a moan.” He does his best to look contrite, his spoon swirling his cereal around the bowl.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione laughs, wrapping her arm around his shoulder and giving him a peck on the cheek. “You act like this is the first time.”

*****

It’s Draco Malfoy. Of course it is, the fucking wanker. Of all the people in the Wizarding world to come and fix Ron and Hermione’s Floo, it had to be fucking Malfoy. How did this even happen? Surely Ron and Hermione didn’t know it was Malfoy when they asked Harry to be in the house when the Floo... fixer person thing arrived. Else they wouldn’t have asked him. Right?

Harry really needs to get a job.

Malfoy stares at him, one eyebrow raised, looking put together and classy and Harry hates him. Completely. Annoyance bubbles in his stomach and he scowls. Malfoy shouldn’t be fixing Floos. He should be… well, Harry doesn’t know. Not in Azkaban, because Harry fought fucking hard for Malfoy not to be there. But he shouldn’t be in the Granger-Weasley house. This is where Harry belongs. Not permanently, obviously. This isn’t his home. But it’s where his best friends live. His best friends. Not Malfoy’s. His scowl deepens, his knuckles white as they cling to the door.

“I understand you don’t live here, but manners would suggest that you invite me into the house,” Malfoy drawls, clearly bored, clearly still a prick. “Especially when I’m employed to be here.” A wicked smirk plays on the corner of his mouth and Harry wants to hit him. In the jaw. Hard.

“You’re here to fix the Floo?” Harry snarls as best he can. He’s not great at snarling. Especially not when he’s in front of fucking Malfoy.

“Well I’m not here for a social call,” Malfoy chuckles, running his ridiculously long fingers through his ridiculously neat hair as if one single hair is out of place. As if he finds Harry amusing. Bellend. Something that Harry chooses to identify as anger bubbles in his chest and he aims for a cruel grin.

“What, the Malfoy Millions not cutting it these days?” he asks, attempting to look sophisticated whilst raising an eyebrow. His stomach sinks when Malfoy’s face becomes stoney and he stands taller, straightening his jacket. His ridiculously well fitted Muggle jacket. Malfoy shouldn’t be wearing Muggle clothes and standing in the doorway of Hermione and Ron’s house. Harry crosses his arms and frowns.

“How about you show me where the Floo is and I can get on with my work?” Malfoy suggests, his demeanor cooly professional. Harry holds back a groan and turns to walk through the house, not bothering to wait to see if Malfoy is following. He hears a soft huff behind him and the quiet click of the front door shutting. The back of his neck tingles as he pushes the door to the living room open, Malfoy close behind him.

He loves Hermione and Ron’s living room. It’s cosy and full of books and files and Ron’s jumpers haphazardly scattered on every surface. The fireplace is in the middle of the long wall, the usual paintings and photos surrounding it propped up against the sofa. Harry turns and gestures to the fireplace, and Malfoy raises one eyebrow before sweeping past him and standing in front of it, his eyebrows suddenly drawn in concentration. Harry shuffles on the spot, his legs heavy and his skin itchy. What’s he supposed to do now? He should have brought some work with him. Malfoy takes his jacket off, laying it gently against the arm of the sofa and Harry starts. Maybe he should stay here. Malfoy could be up to something.

“So, what, you’re just fixing Floos now?” Harry says, flopping down on the loveseat next to the sofa. Malfoy freezes for a second before stepping towards the fireplace and leaning into it, long fingers gripping the side for balance. Harry can just picture him tapping his fingertips together as he comes up with nefarious plans.

“Clearly.” Malfoy’s voice echoes around the chimney breast, the sound bitter and sarcastic and Harry bristles. Still a fucking prick. Malfoy straightens, his hair still fucking perfect, his shirt fitting his body too closely, his trousers annoyingly tailored and annoyingly Muggle. Grinding his teeth together, Harry grasps on to the irritation bubbling in his chest. 

“Using all those skills you learnt with the vanishing cabinet?” he snips, a pleased thrill running through him as he sees Malfoy stiffen, his hands shaking slightly as he tries to gain his composure. In a minute he’s going to flip out and then Harry can prove that he’s a twat. But then Malfoy’s shoulders slump and instead of turning to face Harry he slowly pulls his wand from his arm holster and starts casting soft, silent spells at the fireplace.

“Yes, I suppose,” he mutters between two spells. The small shrug that accompanies the reply fills Harry’s head with a buzzing and he can’t stop this growl from rumbling at the back of his throat. 

“You won’t mind if I stay here, make sure Death Eaters don’t break into my best friends’ home.” He knows it’s a low blow. Knows that if Hermione was here she’d be furious at him for bringing up the past that Malfoy has apologised for, has atoned for, that, actually, they’ve all forgiven Malfoy for. But there’s something in the way that Malfoy breathes that gets under Harry’s skin. Malfoy spins on the spot, his eyes wide and swimming and something like excitement pulses in Harry’s chest.

Harry finds himself standing as Malfoy takes a small step closer, his hand tight on his wand, “You know what, Potter—”

“What?”

“You…”

“I?” Harry smirks at the blush creeping up Malfoy’s neck and cheeks. Any minute now he’ll fling a curse at Harry and Harry will have a legitimate excuse to punch him. Any minute now… any minute...

“Do what you want. Just try to avoid asinine conversation,” Malfoy says quietly, his voice still and tight, before turning back to his work. Harry stares for a moment, his mind swirling. Malfoy moves fluidly, sparks flying from his wand and occasionally from the chimney breast. His face is drawn in concentration, his lip caught between his teeth, a muscle in his neck twitching. A stirring in Harry’s lower abdomen shocks him from his staring and he flops back down onto the sofa.

The air hangs thick around them as Malfoy works in silence, and Harry stares at him. He looks good. Healthy. He looks healthy. He’s still a wanker. Ok, maybe not as much of a wanker as Harry thought he might be, but still… prick. Malfoy lowers his wand, and steps forward to look up into the Floo again. From her place on the floor, a photo of Hermione looks up at him, almost disappointed. Right. He’s probably being a shit host. Not that he’s a host, or that Malfoy is a guest. But Hermione probably would have offered Malfoy a drink or something.

“I’d ask if you want a cup of tea, but I doubt I could make one to your ridiculously high standards.” Harry shuffles in his seat, coughing slightly. Malfoy straightens, rolling up his shirt sleeves and fixing Harry with a piercing gaze. Here. This has to be it. The argument Harry’s been hoping - waiting - for. 

“Actually, a cup of tea would be great. However it comes.” Malfoy smiles at him and his heart jumps a little. He shuffles off the sofa, rushing for the safety of the kitchen, a little confused why he needs to find safety at all.

*****

Twice in one week. Someone is fucking with his life. 

“Hello, Potter,” Malfoy smiles as Harry stares at him, his mouth hanging open. Malfoy is in the Ministry. Just walking around, looking ridiculously relaxed, wearing clean cut robes with the collar open, looking like he belongs there. In the Ministry. Not that the Ministry is Harry’s place. Obviously. He doesn’t work there. But it isn’t Malfoy’s either.

“Malfoy! Why are you here?” he asks, and Malfoy laughs, a warm, rolling laugh that does something uninteresting to Harry’s stomach.

“Nice to know when I’m unwanted,” he replies in a soft voice, his eyes sparkling as he looks down at Harry. Heat creeps up Harry’s neck, his skin tingling and the tips of his fingers numb as he shakes his head.

“No! No… I just… I was here to have lunch with Hermione and…” he trails off, his hands gesticulating wilding for no reason. 

“Ah. Well Mr Robards with the Auror department had managed to break his Floo.” Malfoy points towards the Auror offices before turning back to Harry just as Harry tugs at his hair in an attempt to ground himself. There’s a soft smile playing on the corner of Malfoy’s lips, his eyes still fucking shining as he watches Harry have his little meltdown. Harry coughs, straightening and crossing his arms over his chest to stop his hands from moving.

“Gawain? How?” He doesn’t know why he asks. He knows nothing about Floos. He didn’t even know they could break. Malfoy sighs, his shoulders slumping and he gestures down the corridor in the direction they were both walking when they bumped into each other. Harry starts to walk, Malfoy following next to him, their arms brushing against each others.

“Too much Floo powder. You really only need a pinch,” Malfoy explains and Harry nods. Right. A pinch. Who knew more than that would make a Floo break? Malfoy, clearly.

“I’ll remember that next time.” He mumbles and next to him Malfoy chuckles.

“Do you travel by Floo a lot? You always struck me as a walking man.” Malfoy is looking at him, he can feel it. He glances across at the other man, noticing again how fucking tall he’s become, and pulls a face.

“I am! I mean, I can use a Floo, obviously.” But he hates it. He hates the weird hooked feeling he gets when he’s pulled through space. He hates the way the powder and soot gets up his nose. He hates the way he can never bloody land properly. He hates the memory of Yaxley grabbing at them as the rushed to Grimmauld Place. He shakes his head. “But… walking. Yeah. Also the Floo at my place doesn’t work great.”

“Oh? Where are you living at the moment?” Malfoy seems genuinely interested, his head tilting to the side. Their shoes tap quietly on the tiled floor and Harry wonders what they look like together. Not together. Just, next to each other in the corridor. Malfoy raises his eyebrows slightly and Harry realises he hasn’t answered the question.

“12 Grimmauld Place…” Harry grunts, not sure he wants Malfoy to know. Not because he’s scared about Malfoy knowing where he lives, more that he’s embarrassed to be living in a house that is probably more rightfully Malfoy’s than Harry’s.

“The Black House? In Islington?” Malfoy asks, his voice getting a fraction higher and Harry cringes. Yes, Malfoy, that house. The house that probably should have gone to his mother rather than Harry. The house that the Black’s have owned for generations. The house that has a picture of Draco magically embedded into the walls.

“Hmm,” Harry mutters non-committedly.

“Wow. Well, it’s good someone is living there. Mother used to worry about it, after Sirius—” Malfoy stops talking, and Harry tries to breathe. Of course Narcissa knew about Sirius. Bellatrix probably bragged about it. Harry’s head swims and for a moment he feels sick. And then a soft hand on his elbow brings him back and he finds himself at the visitors exit of the Ministry. So he can walk home. He looks up at Malfoy’s face, watching the way Malfoy’s eyes swim with worry, a muscle in his jaw twitching, the tiniest peek of white as he bites his lower lip.

“Would you like to see it?” He doesn’t know why he’s asked. They aren’t friends. But he can’t stop looking at that lip and the words tumble from his mouth before his breath catches up.

“Seriously?” Malfoy looks as surprised as Harry feels. Because it’s surprising. It’s not every day that your nemesis asks you to their house. Are they still nemeses? Malfoy’s tooth is visible again and Harry’s muscles all tighten at once.

“Yeah, why not?” He shrugs. Malfoy’s eyes flicker over his face. Harry doesn’t move. He can’t. He’s stuck still as his skin itches under Malfoy’s gaze and his heartbeat thrums in his ears. 

Malfoy tilts his head to the side, “You’re sure?”

He wasn’t.

“Definitely!” Harry exclaims, too loudly for the atrium of the Ministry, “I’ll make some dinner or something. Tomorrow night?” Why did he say tomorrow night? He’ll have to apologise to Ron. Malfoy smiles, a wide, open smile that makes his face seem younger. 

“Sounds lovely. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says before turning and disappearing through the exit, leaving Harry’s elbow cold.

*****

Why the fuck did he invite Draco fucking Malfoy to his house? No one ever comes to the house. Maybe, sometimes, Hermione and Ron, but usually he tries to go to theirs. It’s warm and nice and smells good at theirs. His is shit. Sure, he managed to get rid of the dead house elf heads, but the whole place is black and dusty and damp. If he could be bothered, he’d move. But as it is, he doesn’t spend much time in the house, so what’s the point?

He stumbles down the stairs into the kitchen, skidding on the floor to the hob. He pokes at the bolognese that he’s trying to cook. Why the fuck did he say he would cook? He hasn’t cooked anything since he was 11 years old. Not really. He’s pretty sure cheese on toast doesn’t count. He groans and watches as the bolognese bubbles a little, before pointing his wand at a pot, casting a quick Aguamenti at it, and setting it to boil. He’s just chucking in a handful of spaghetti, hoping it’s enough, when the doorbell rings.

Sliding back through the house, his heart hammers as he watches the shape of Draco Malfoy through the glass of his front door. Maybe he’s running his fingers through his immaculate hair again. Maybe he’s biting his lip, with that impossibly white tooth just visible. He takes a deep breath, and yanks open the door.

“Hey,” he breathes. Draco turns from where he was looking out at the small gated garden in the square and hits Harry with a stunning smile.

“Hi.” Draco’s voice quivers slightly and Harry’s chest hurts. Trying to breathe like a normal person, Harry takes in the not entirely unappealing sight in front of him. Draco is wearing a tight black tshirt, which clings to his pecs distractingly, underneath a checked flannel shirt. Casual, fitted jeans sit low on his hips, hinting at the curve of his arse, and he’s wearing converse. Actual, honest to God, converse. It’s round about the converse that Harry realises two things. Firstly, that he just checked Draco Malfoy out, very obviously. And secondly, that Draco Malfoy is possibly one of the fittest men he has ever seen in his life. He is fucked.

“So…” he mutters, forcing his eyes up to Draco’s. Draco’s eyes glitter with amusement, one eyebrow raised ever so slightly. Harry coughs, shuffling on the spot.

“So, this is it?” Draco breaks the tension, glancing around the doorway and into the house. 

“Yeah… come in!” Harry jumps back, waving Draco in with a completely and wholly ridiculous gesture. He’s not a fucking butler. He doesn’t miss the smirk at the corner of Draco’s mouth, the way those fucking eyes, more silver than grey, twinkle at him. Heat travels up his neck, prickly and uncomfortable. One day he’ll be cool. But clearly not today. He clicks the door shut and turns to find Draco studying the hallway.

“It’s…” Draco trails off and Harry winces. Looking at it through the Draco’s eyes is worse than through his own. He can’t ignore the way the paper is peeling along the alcoving, or the threadbare carpet of the stairs, or the mould threatening at the corners of the floor boards. 

“Awful,” he supplies and Draco gives him a grimace. He stands next to Draco for a moment, letting the rich, sweet, chocolate smell wash over him. It’s a nice smell. Harry could get addicted to a smell like that. It makes everything seem less… shit. Draco turns to look at him, his lip caught in his teeth again and Harry tries to remember exactly why this undeniably attractive man is in his house. Right. Food. “Yeah. Um, the kitchen is this way.” He gestures and Draco nods once, walking down the narrow corridor towards the kitchen. Harry shamelessly stares at Draco’s arse as he walks, the way the fabric clings to it, the beautiful curve of it just obscured by the shirt. 

Draco steps into the kitchen, shaking Harry from his staring and Harry slips around him to get to the hob. He pokes at the spaghetti, watching as the strands swirl together. Maybe he’s made too much. He always makes too much. Draco comes and leans on the counter next to him, his arms crossed, his long legs stretched in front of him, the fabric of his jeans tugging tight against his thighs. Oh this is not good. Harry coughs and stirs the bolognese, “So… how’d you get into fixing Floos?”

“You were right, I picked up certain skills over sixth year, and it’s nice to actually do something useful with them.” Draco looks at his feet and Harry suddenly regrets asking. Draco’s apologised to society. A lot. And even though Harry had always assumed that Draco was lying, it sort of seems that he wasn’t. Hermione and Ron let him into their house. And he really does seem to have changed. Harry’s skin itches and he runs his hand through his hair before pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Draco—”

“So what are you up to at the moment, Potter? Not much?” Draco looks at him, his chin sticking into the air a little, a smirk twitching on his lips. Relief washes through Harry and his shoulders slump as he smiles back.

“Hey! I might be very busy,” he protests feebly and Draco’s chin drops as he relaxes. The low light of the kitchen plays across his face, highlighting his high cheekbones, his quirked lips, his nose, impossibly straight. He’s beautiful. He raises one eyebrow and Harry feels the heat prick at his cheeks as he blushes.

“You were called by Hermione and Ron to sit in their house in the middle of the day, to watch me fix a Floo.” Draco points out and Harry groans.

“Ok, fine. I’m not doing very much,” he replies with a shrug. He probably should be doing something with his life. He’s possibly the only person in the world who has been lucky enough to survive death. Maybe the vampires. But doing something with his life seems pointless when the whole point of his life was to die. Draco shuffles closer and Harry stops breathing, stops thinking, as Draco pierces him with a look, his lip between his teeth.

“Enjoying it?” Draco’s voice is deep, a rough sort of roll that is so different to how he normally speaks, and Harry is caught by the rawness of it.

“Um…” he stutters. What can he say? Is he enjoying doing nothing with his life? Probably not as much as he should be. He pointlessly stirs at the bolognese, tears stinging at the back of his eye, his throat tight and his cheeks aching. He can practically feel Draco breathing next to him, can feel concern pouring from him like it does Hermione every time they talk about Harry’s future. Maybe it would be nice if people didn’t worry about him.

“I hear you’ve been asked to consult on Muggle Wizarding relations for the American and British Ministries?” It’s a question that Harry is pretty sure Draco doesn’t need to ask. It’s been heavily publicised, there have been a truly horrible amount of photos taken, and Harry’s pretty sure there isn’t a wizard or witch in the world that doesn’t know that new guidelines are being written. Even the ones in other countries who don’t know who Harry is have probably heard he’s involved.

“Uh… yeah…” He scowls and Draco nods.

“Sounds interesting. I’m sure you’ll be very good at it.” The complement hits Harry in the solar plexus and he leans against the edge of the hob, holding onto it with whitening knuckles.

“Thanks,” he breathes. Warmth spread through him as Draco uncrosses his arm and places an elegant hand over Harry’s, forcing it to relax its grip. The gesture is wonderfully intimate, and if this were a film, it would be the moment that Harry would lean over and kiss Draco. But it’s not. So he doesn’t. 

“You’re welcome,” Draco whispers, before patting Harry on the hand. “This house really is awful.” Draco moves away, taking the tension with him, giving Harry something to focus on that isn’t the seemingly never ending stretch of life in front of him. Harry breathes and he drops the spoon that’s currently doing nothing to the food and turns to look at the kitchen. It’s probably the best room in the house, depressingly, and mostly because Molly messed with it a bit when it was being used for the Order. And because he suspects Kreacher comes in occasionally to clean it.

“Yeah.” He rubs at his arm and Draco stands, walking around the large wooden table in the middle of the room, looking appraisingly at the walls.

“You could do a lot with it though.” Draco rubs at his chin, where Harry notices a soft glow of stubble shining, his eyes narrowing at a particularly ugly dresser. Harry sighs. Yes. There’s a lot he could do with a lot of things. But, he doesn’t.

“I could… but…” he trails off, watching as Draco moves through his space, filling it with life. 

“What, not got the time?” Draco raises an eyebrow at him, laughter in his eyes and Harry chuckles, shaking his head and looking down at his feet. He’s wearing odd socks. He sighs, scuffing one foot against the floor, crossing his arms over his chest in a vague attempt to stop his heart from pounding and his lungs from hurting.

“Funny,” he mutters. “I just… I have no idea what I would do. So I just don’t.” He glances up to see Draco watching him and he suddenly feels like he’s back at school, Hermione looking over him as he tried to figure out the answer to every question thrown at him in lessons.

“Hmm.” Draco’s head bobs slowly, his eyes boring into Harry. They stand in the simmering air, neither of them able to look away, something crackling at Harry’s fingertips. He coughs, again, and turns to point at the food. 

“Ok, this is nearly done. You want a tour before we eat?” It feels awkward to ask, like he's interrupted something important, something sacred, but he can't breathe, and he needs the distraction. Draco’s face clears and he grins.

“Definitely.” Draco skips towards the door, a dangerously hungry glint at the corner of his eye. Harry shakes his head again and leads the way out of the kitchen. Being around Draco Malfoy is a bad idea.

*****

On Monday, he turned up with a book on how to properly maintain an old Wizarding town house, and sat reading it in Harry’s living room whilst occasionally tutting. Harry avoided him like the plague, sitting in his makeshift office on the third floor and pretend— no actually doing work. They didn’t speak all day and by the end of it Harry felt drained.

On Tuesday, he arrived with a box of tools that looked ominous. He walked around the house pressing small, round, glass cups to parts of the wall and humming, and Harry fled each room as he walked into it, his heart racing and his palms sweaty. He only once asked Harry for a cup of tea, which he sipped before pulling a face and politely thanking Harry. He left just as the sun was setting and Harry fell straight to sleep.

On Wednesday, he had a sledge hammer and Harry nearly cried. He watched, surreptitiously, as Draco whispered spells before slamming into the wall with Walburga’s portrait on. At one point Harry could have sworn Draco glanced his way, a soft smirk playing on his lips before turning back to the wall. Harry slept in Sirius’s room that night, the only room not filled with brick dust.

On Thursday, he announced that he would be staying at Grimmauld Place until it was properly restored and liveable. Harry tried not to point out that it wasn’t his home, and Harry was living there just fine before his little renovation project. There was something about that that didn’t feel entirely true.

On Friday, Harry almost passed out when he bumped into a sleepy, dishevelled Draco on his way to the bathroom. He may or may not have had a wank in the shower, the harsh realisation that he was not going to be able to ignore how hot Draco is when Draco is living in his house making him come harder than he ever had before. He’d spent the rest of the day grumbling in his bedroom whilst Draco sawed something.

He had thought he would get a reprieve on the weekend. It would have been nice. The harsh buzzing currently coming from the stairway suggests otherwise. Harry groans, burying his head further into his pillow and drawing his duvet over his head. He hates sleeping in Sirius’s room. Too many memories and, if he’s honest, it’s fucking draughty up here. The fact that Draco is next door in Regulus’s room does not help matters.

The buzzing gets louder and Harry shouts, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates from the back of his throat. Spinning quickly he jumps out of the bed, flinging the duvet onto the floor and stomping to the door. He wrenches it open and then freezes. Draco is standing at the top of the stairs, a large piece of wood and a hammer in his hands. His normally immaculate hair is a mess, and grey with dust, and his jeans hug his thighs in a way that can’t be appropriate for working on a house. And that’s not the worst part.

Draco is wearing Harry’s tshirt.

It’s light grey, old and soft with a hole near the collar that is revealing way too much of Draco’s impossibly lickable collarbone. It’s also very much too small for Harry, and so therefore very much too small for Draco. It clings to his pecs, his abs, his fucking biceps, with their stupid bicep vein and rippling muscles. Harry’s mouth goes dry as he watches Draco strain to reach something with the wood and hammer at the same time. He shouldn’t be wearing Harry’s tshirt. And he definitely shouldn’t look fucking better in it! Draco stretches to reach further, and the tshirt rides up, exposing a thin strip of creamy skin. Harry gasps, and then promptly chokes on his own spit.

“Harry?” Draco asks, turning around and putting the wood and hammer on the floor. “Are you ok?” Harry nods, gasping for breath, his throat stinging and his eyes watering. Fuck, why can’t he be cool. Draco frowns, his eyes swimming with concern and Harry waves at him.

“I’m fine,” he croaks and Draco audibly sighs, his lips quirking into a soft smile.

“Good. If you die and I’m the only one here…” he trails off, his hand moving to stroke along his arm, where the Mark is faded to an ugly scar, impossibly pale against Draco’s skin. Harry’s heart jumps and he shuffles forward a step before changing his mind and stopping still. “Anyway!” Draco moves, rubbing his hands on the edge of his - Harry’s - tshirt, “What’s up?”

“You’re wearing my tshirt,” Harry stutters, his eyes stuck on the shadow of softly curved muscles leading down into his… fuck. Draco shrugs, forcing Harry’s eyes up and away from temptation. He really isn’t wearing enough clothes to hide his rapidly growing erection.

“Yeah, sorry. I don’t have anything suitable, and I saw this in your chest of drawers,” Draco mutters, smoothing down the tshirt so that it stretches, even tighter, over those fucking perfect muscles that Harry’s pretty sure are burned into his retinas. Just in case he ever needs extra images to wank to. He should probably be more upset about Draco wearing his tshirt, but it’s really hard to be annoyed when he’s also having trouble breathing and thinking. “Harry?” Draco asks and Harry jumps. Right. He needs to make a comment about Draco taking his tshirt.

“Uh… sure, that’s fine…” he mumbles, waving at Draco and backing slowly into his room. Draco looks like he’s about to say something, probably ask why Harry has suddenly become an idiot, and Harry cuts in, “I’m, uh, back to bed. Looks good.” His flappy hands move around the hallway and he shuts the door, spinning quickly and flopping down on the bed, his erection painful and his head swimming. Fuck.

*****

It’s been three weeks since Draco has moved in and destroyed his house. Ok, not destroyed. Vastly improved. Harry’s heart aches a little as he thinks about how hard Draco works. The only time he seems to stop moving is when he collapses onto the sofa at ten at night, curled up in a ball as his eyelashes flutter against his cheek. Harry’s fingers itch to stroke his hair away from his forehead in those moments. Instead he’s been practicing self control. And furiously wanking.

The house is almost unrecognisable. Stunning and unrecognisable. Molly may have cried when she’d come to visit a couple of days before.The carpets have been removed and the floor has been magically sanded. The banisters now glisten in a beautiful cherry wood, and Draco’s even framed photos and lined the hallway with them. Photos of their friends, their family, candid photos of the two of them together that had been taken over the past few weeks. The day Harry had come home to find them he’d almost kissed Draco. Just because he couldn’t imagine another way to tell him how he felt.

“I was thinking we should try and bring the living room downstairs?” Harry says as they sit in the kitchen, eating stew that Draco made. It’s warm and rich and Harry is starting to wonder if there’s anything that Draco isn’t good at. His mind provides him with some unhelpful images of other things Draco could do very well and he chokes a little on his food. 

“What about the dining room?” Draco replies, handing Harry a glass of water.

“We never eat in the dining room…” Harry rasps, taking the water and sipping it. His throat burns and his trousers are too tight and he doesn’t know that he hates it. He looks at Draco through watery eyes and then rolls them, gesturing around the room, “Obviously. We could make the living room upstairs into an office.”

“Ok. I can see about knocking through the wall if you want? We’d walk right into the living room from the front door, but it would make it much bigger.” Draco carries on eating his stew elegantly, occasionally dipping thickly buttered crusty bread into the gravy. Harry watches him for a moment, watches the way that the new kitchen lights play off his hair, making him look angelic. No, that’s not right. Draco isn’t pure enough, boring enough, to be an angel. He’s too full of fire and passion. Energy. Harry turns back to his stew, swirling his spoon around the gravy in search of meat.

“That would be nice. Do I need to worry about how much you like knocking walls down?” he asks, keeping his voice light. Draco laughs, his warm round laugh and shrugs inelegantly.

“What can I say, I just love destruction.” He takes a bite of his stew and Harry glares at him.

“Liar, you love making things better,” he says, more harshly than he’d intended. Draco’s head whips up and he looks at Harry, his eyes wide. It’s true. Draco does like to make things better. Like the house. And Floos. And his relationship with the wider Wizarding world. And Harry’s clothes. And dinner.

“This is true.” Draco’s voice sounds wary, but his smile is relaxed and shining and Harry shuffles in his chair. Harry can’t stop the smile stretching across his face and Draco pushes his hand through his hair, dust floating down from it and peppering the table. He looks dishevelled and gorgeous. Draco tilts his head to the side, one eyebrow raised, “What are you smiling at?”

Harry jumps, before shrugging. “This… I like it. It feels very…” he trails off, not sure what he was going to say. No. He’s exactly sure what he was going to say. And that’s the fucking scary thing. Because it feels perfect. Like they’re a couple, a family. It feels—

“Normal?” Draco supplies and Harry’s eyes open wide. A soft blush starts to rise in Draco’s cheeks. He looks younger, more peaceful, so alive. And so fucking right.

“Yeah. I - we - didn’t have that growing up…” he mumbles. Draco sighs, his spoon clinking in his bowl, the fingers of one hand flexing and clenching before drawing small circles on the table where a drop of water has spilt.

“It’s hard to have a normal life when you have a mad man living in your house.” Draco’s voice is so small, Harry feels sick. He leans forward, brushing one finger over the back of Draco’s hand. Draco looks up at him, his eyes watery.

“Yeah… I wonder what that’s like,” Harry grins and Draco huffs a laugh.

“Fuck off.” His voice is choked, but lighter than it was and Harry’s back relaxes. His hand stays on Draco’s, magic crackling between them. Draco coughs, leaning back, breaking the bond between them and Harry feels cold. Empty. He scans Draco’s face to see if it’s had the same affect on him. That damned bloody tooth is showing where Draco is biting his lip and Harry wants to lean forward, over the table, and lick at the poor, abused lip. Draco hiccups, his hands tight, his eyes down in his lap, “I wish it hadn’t happened during our time. I wish it hadn’t happened at all.”

“I think most people probably wish that. But then we wouldn’t be here.” It’s the only thing that Harry can think to say. It’s the only thing he can afford to think. The only way he can sleep at night.

“Hmm… true. But maybe we’d be somewhere better…” Draco trails off and Harry can’t breathe. His head swims and his pulse kicks in his fingertips as he watches sadness flicker over Draco’s face. There’s so much pain there, so much that Harry doesn’t know, that he may never know, and all he wants to do is wrap Draco in his arms and keep him safe. Keep him happy. Keep him loved. The thought hits him like a punch in the gut and he drops his spoon. He loves Draco. He loves him. Fuck.

“Draco—”

“I think I could probably connect the floo to the fireplace in the new living room. Save people coming into our office,” Draco jumps in, sitting straighter in his chair and picking up his spoon again. Harry watches him for a moment before nodding and letting Draco talk about their house.

*****

“Harry… you have dust in your hair…” Ron comments as Harry plonks his pint down on the table they’ve managed to grab at the back of the pub. Harry stares at him for a moment, completely lost.

“What?” he asks, and then the penny drops. He growls, and runs a hand through his hair, plaster dust sprinkling the floor and chair in front of him. Fucking plaster dust. It’s literally everywhere. He looks over at where Ron is watching him with confusion on his face and sighs, flopping down onto his chair, “Draco is knocking through a wall, it’s literally everywhere.”

“He’s still at your house?” Ron asks, incredulous. Harry nods, taking a sip of his pint. It’s cool and tart and he needs it. Not because of the alcohol, but because he needs some time out of his house. If he spends any more time around Draco he’s going to jump him, and he doesn’t think Draco will appreciate it. Although… maybe. He does keep brushing past Harry when he doesn’t need to. And the other morning Harry was pretty sure he heard him wanking in the shower. And he thinks he may have heard his name. Ron takes a sip of his own pint, smacking his lips before putting it down and leaning back in his chair, “And… he’s doing ok?”

“I think so.” Harry stretches his legs, crossing one ankle over the other and thinks about Draco. He seems happy. Content. He moves around their house with a sort of easy confidence that Harry wishes he has. He grins at Ron and nods, “Yeah, yeah he is.”

“And, how are you doing?” Ron asks more pointedly, fixing Harry with a knowing stare. Harry’s skin tickles and he shuffles in his chair, his neck hot and his chest tight. He picks up a coaster, peeling at the cardboard and dropping the tiny pieces onto the table.

“I don’t know. It’s fucking hard!” he whines, in a voice that makes him shudder. He sounds like a fucking teenager. He’s a grown man. He should not be pouting into his pint whilst his best friend looks smug.

“Because…” said best friend prompts, picking up his pint and raising his eyebrows at Harry. Harry groans, shoving his hair out of his face and pushing his glasses up his nose. He chucks the coaster onto the table and leans forward, looking at Ron, pleading with him

“Because he’s fucking hot! And we live together! And all he does is focus on that fucking house. And I can’t breathe when he’s around. And I’ve given him so many hints! But he just walks around fixing the house. It’s like he’s obsessed!” he wails and Ron nods wisely, taking a large gulp of beer, before licking his lips and leaning his elbows on the table like he’s about to tell Harry a secret.

“Hmm… maybe he needs a new hobby.” Ron’s eyes sparkle and Harry can’t help but laugh. He’s about as unsubtle as a mouth around a cock. Speaking of...

“Maybe…” he beams and Ron looks serious, his eyebrows still raised.

“One involving more cocks,” he emphasises and Harry’s laugh becomes louder, barking across the pub. He leans back in his chair and grabs his pint, rolling his eyes at his friend, who is still giving him a very serious look for someone who just said the word ‘cock’ loudly in a crowded pub. 

“Thank you, Ron, that was implied,” Harry says and Ron shakes his head.

“Implication is stupid. Go fuck him until he forgets he has a house to renovate.”

*****

Harry is half hard by the time he gets home. Mainly because he had to walk from Diagon, because their Floo still isn’t operational, and it’s given him lots of time to think about exactly what he wants to do with Draco. Images of Draco’s quirked, pink lips tight around his cock have been filling his mind since he left Ron. Actually, they probably started around the time that Ron told him that he should be fucking Draco. Actually… no. No, that’s where he’s going to stop.

He opens the front door of Grimmauld Place into their new living room. Draco is bent in front of the Floo, his beautifully curved arse sticking into the air as he fiddles with something under the fireplace. Apparently that’s the difficult part about moving a Floo, making sure the fireplace can still function as a fire, but is flat and stable enough for someone to step into. Harry grimaces at the fact that he now knows that. He’s had enough conversations about Floos.

“Harry? Could you come here and pass me my wand please?” Draco calls from inside the fireplace and Harry stifles a growl. He can’t just jump Draco. For one thing, Draco might not want him. And for another, he doesn’t have the confidence to ask. So instead he walks over to Draco, grabbing his wand from where it’s sitting on the coffee table, and places it in the waving hand. There’s a muffled thanks and then a flash of something and Draco reappears, sitting back on his heels.

“Done?” Harry asks, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth, his hands shaking and clammy, his cock painfully hard. Draco grins up at him, his eyes swirling silver. He has a streak of soot on his cheek and his hair is falling into his eye. He’s adorable and Harry’s heart clenches. He needs to kiss him, now. If Draco will let him.

“Not even close, but the hardest bit is done,” Draco says, standing and Harry tries to regain control over his mind and body. “How was the pub? How’s Ron?” Harry frowns at him, following like a puppy as Draco walks over to where there’s an old towel on the back of a chair. Draco’s wearing his tshirt again. Harry wants to lick him. He starts rubbing the soot off his hands, his face, the back of his neck and Harry wants him. All of him. In every way. He steps closer, pulled to Draco like a magnet. Draco stops rubbing, looking at Harry with a raised eyebrow, “Harry?”

Harry steps closer still, the heat of Draco rushing over him, chocolate sweetness filling him up. He can see Draco’s chest rising and falling as the other man watches him, his lips slightly parted. Fuck, those lips. The way they quirk at the corners. The subtle pink of them. The small red mark that is always on the bottom lip where Draco’s tooth presses into it. Draco doesn’t move as Harry gets neerer.

“Draco…” he breathes, his eyes flicking between Draco’s mouth and Draco’s eyes, the pupils slowly getting wider. He feels Draco’s breath hitching as he lifts his hands, stroking along Draco’s arm, feeling the soft hairs under his fingertips. His heart is in his throat, his head spinning, his arms heavy even as he moves them. The towel drops to the floor as Draco moves his hands to slide around Harry’s waist. Shivering under the touch, Harry continues to stroke upwards, his fingers grazing Draco’s shoulders, collarbone, neck, jaw, until he’s cupping Draco’s face. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers like a prayer.

“Yes,” Draco sighs, the ‘s’ swallowed by Harry’s mouth as he pushes up, pressing their lips together. Draco arms slide around Harry waist, as Harry plunges his hands into Draco’s hair. Harry’s head swims as he licks at Draco’s lip, his poor abused lip, and Draco’s mouth opens with his. Their tongues twist together, bodies aligned, hard muscles pressed close. Draco tastes like water, clean and clear and Harry doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough of it.

The kiss deepens, their hips rolling, erections pressed tight. Harry groans into Draco’s mouth, his cock unbearably hard and crushed painfully against his fly. Less clothes. He would very much like there to be less clothes. His hands slide down Draco’s arms, his mouth moving to taste along Draco’s jaw. Stubble scratches at his tongue, the soft salty taste of Draco making his stomach clench. He licks lower, nipping and sucking at Draco’s neck, drawing mewls and whimpers from Draco’s lips. The hole in his tshirt, deliciously tempting, is stretched as Harry tugs on the hem, using the space to lap at the bone. Draco shudders under the touch and Harry can’t help but smile.

Draco’s hands bunch in Harry’s tshirt, a moment before pulling it up over Harry’s head, knocking Harry’s glasses askew. Harry growls, attacking Draco’s mouth with vigour, and Draco respond, long, dexterous fingers running along Harry’s back, nails scratching lightly at the skin and making Harry shudder with desire. He pulls back, gazing at Draco for a moment, his heavy-lidded eyes, his bee-stung lips, his mussed hair, and he wants, more than he ever has before. And not just this. Everything. All of it.

Harry’s hands run along Draco’s chest, up and under his tshirt, feeling the slight ridges of Draco’s abs, the soft roll of his waist, his nipples, small and hard. He needs more. He leans back, taking his hands out of his tshirt, and reaching up for the hole in the neck. Draco’s eyes are dark, lust blown and unfocused, watching as Harry takes the flimsy material and tugs. It rips unevenly, in strips and Harry moves his hands, pulling at each new section, revealing more and more of Draco’s skin. 

He stares for a moment, taking in the expanse of creamy skin, nipples pale pink and hard, belly button small. He’s gorgeous. His eyes travel back up Draco’s torso, and then they’re looking at each other. Looking into each other. They move with a snap, toeing off shoes and socks, unbuttoning jeans, clothes chucked to the side with abandon. They stand together, naked, staring, until Harry can’t take it anymore.

They move swiftly, hands and tongues and cocks twisting as they collapse backwards onto the sofa. Harry slides between Draco’s legs, their hips aligning, cock nestled next to each other as they rock. Pleasure coils in Harry’s groin, the hot slide of Draco’s cock against his making his head swirl. Draco’s hands run through Harry’s hair, his long legs wrapping around Harry’s waist, keeping him tight. The heady scent of sex fills the air as as they move, their breath mingling, their foreheads pressed together. Draco’s eyes are dark as the bore into Harry’s, the sounds of panting and soft moans filling Harry’s ears as he gets lost in Draco.

“Please, Harry,” Draco mewls, “more. I need— years I’ve wanted— please.” Nodding, Harry wiggles from Draco’s legs, muttering a quick lubrication spell. He reaches between them, taking a moment to appreciate Draco’s cock, flushed pink and leaking onto the golden hairs trailing from his belly button to the base of his cock. Draco’s breath hitches as Harry circles one slick finger around his hole before pushing in, Draco tight and hot around him. He slides another finger into Draco, his cock heavy and hard between his legs.

Scissoring his fingers, Harry watches as Draco writhes on the sofa. He looks beautiful. His hair is stuck to his forehead, the remnants of soot still dusty on his face, twisted in pleasure. He’s completely undone. And Harry did that. His heart tugs and his takes a deep, shaky breath.

“Draco…?” He breathes, needing to be in Draco, to be closer to him, with him. Draco’s eyes open and he nods, canting his hips, his hands grasping for Harry. Harry slips his fingers out of Draco, Draco’s whine making his cock twitch, and rubs his cock in more conjured lube. He presses the spongy head of his cock against Draco’s entrance, watching as it slips pasts the ring of muscles.

He slides in slowly, careful to watch Draco’s face, until he bottoms out. They sit, panting, as Draco adjusts. Harry runs his hand along Draco’s legs, massaging his muscles, helping him relax, and Draco move his hand to link with Harry’s. Harry feels the squeeze, subtle and tender, and begins to move, rocking his hips. Leaning forwards, he presses his forehead back against Draco’s, connecting them as many ways as he can.

The soft slap of skin against skin, tight moans and heavy pants fill the air as Harry rocks. Pleasure runs through his, his balls tightening, his eyes on Draco. It’s been too long, too many weeks of watching Draco work, of talking to him over quiet meals in the kitchen, of laughter and secrets. Draco bites his lip, his tooth white against his soft, pink lip and Harry comes. He cries out, filling Draco with his spunk, his muscles tensing and his limbs heavy. Draco gasps, his fingers tightening, his body shuddering as he spills between them.

“About time,” Draco mutters and Harry chuckles against him, pressing a soft kiss to Draco’s lips. They lie together, sated and relaxed, Harry softening inside Draco, slowly drifting to sleep. 

*****

“Hey… Harry…” Draco’s voice rings through his sleep. Stirring, his back sore and a chill running over his skin, he blinks one eye open. He’s lying on Draco’s chest. His bare chest. Flashes of what they’d done, of why they’re lying on the sofa naked, run through Harry and he moves. The soft peel of something sticky stings at Harry’s stomach and he looks down to see the horrible mess of come and sweat between them. Draco winces and Harry feels the heat rising in his cheeks.

“Sorry. This is disgusting,” he mutters and Draco chuckles softly.

“Yeah. Hang on.” Draco leans over the side of the sofa and grabs his wand, waving it over the two of them. His magic caresses Harry’s skin, cool and soothing, and then Harry is clean. Pretty much as clean as if he’d had a shower. Harry smiles, and shuffles down so that he’s lying next to Draco, rather than on top of him, summoning a blanket. Draco wraps an arm around Harry’s shoulders, holding him tight. “Are you ok?” His voice is soft and Harry frowns at him.

“You don't have to worry about me,” he grumbles, not meeting Draco’s eyes, “no one has to worry about me.”

“Hey…” Draco gives his shoulders a little wiggle, forcing Harry to look up at him. Harry can feel Draco’s heart under his fingertips, beating steadily and his breathing slows down. Draco’s fingers start stroking along Harry’s arm, sending waves of relaxed pleasure through Harry, making his limbs heavy and his mouth dry. Draco whispers, his mouth pressed softly against Harry’s forehead, “it's my job to worry about you. Worrying about each other is what we do. It's what we were meant for.” Harry’s heart clenches, his throat tight and his fingers numb. He gazes up, looking into Draco’s eyes and sees the warmth there.

“Draco… I…” he stutters and Draco nods.

“I know,” Draco breathes. The air is still as he stares into Harry. “Worrying is what you do when you love someone.” The words hit Harry like a thunderbolt and he chokes, unable to think of anything as he plunges into a kiss. Draco’s arms are tight around him, their mouths moving together. This is it. Even if his life is boring. Even if he gets called into the Ministry to do ridiculous thing. Even if he has not idea where to go from here, what to do, why he exists, it’s going to be ok.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are seen, read and loved!


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